Who Cares Anyway

The following article was written and published in England after a rather trying time earning my keep as a Carer. “WHO CARES ANYWAY” By Kate Fagalde (Published in Saga Magazine UK – September 1999) I might be nearly 50 but I’ve just joined the circus. Really I have. In no time at all, I have learned to walk the tightrope, do juggling acts, balance on my head, avoid the heights and dive into the depths. I have trained wild animals, cried through the greasepaint, glued a fresh smile on and never asked ‘how high’ when the whip cracked. Which circus did I join? I joined the Carers Circus. Never heard of it. Read on and see if you want to apply. Wanted: Carer/Companion. Country Home. Interest in Country pursuits. Long term position. Cotswolds. It sounded ideal and once I had met the Ring Master and the crew and been introduced to the animals, I thought that the road to fame and fortune was secure. I didn’t live in a caravan as most circus staff do, but had a very cosy bedroom and bathroom of my own. A bolt hole, a safe haven, a place to go and pull the pillows over my head where I could keep out the voice of the Ring Master whose cut glass accent could turn my name into a positively nerve tingling sound. Day One and I start to learn new tricks. The departing clown has left me with a sad smile and the whispered words “Hang in there” as she disappeared over the horizon. I was too blinded with thoughts of all that lay ahead and of the chances to show off my abilities to pay much attention to her departure. However, in retrospect, I do recall that her back was somewhat bowed. But now it was my chance to shine. Who would be able to resist my smile, my friendly personality, my sense of humour, my skills as a good cook, my reputation as a hard working, caring person? The Ring Master – that’s who. Day Two. First Mistake. Never presume that in a past life you have ever been in the position to even so much as breathe the same rarefied air as those in whose home you now find yourself. Your place is below the salt and, as such, you should move about quietly with a bowed head, a soft voice and an air of being unbelievably grateful to have been given a bed and a crust. You will be taken out under controlled circumstances where you will mingle with others who breathe the same rarefied air. They will look at you with all the fascination of a schoolboy regarding a dead ant. They will ask you searching questions about your past and say “Sorry what did you say your name was?” and then drift away before you have a chance to reply. Once they have realised that you are the person who is attached to the wheelchair in which the object of their affections is being transported, you are greeting with open arms, only the arms are for the occupant of the chair and you might just as well be the motorised engine that moves it about. You are sent to sit in the back of an uncomfortable four-wheel drive vehicle behind a metal grill on a hard dirty seat, along with a set of muddy-pawed dogs who sniff at you as though you are a recently gunned down pheasant. As you bounce across the ploughed lands, you are fascinated with the lively and educated conversation coming from the front of the vehicle. “I say, isn’t that old Johnny Flinders – Gad, I thought he was dead. Always was a rotten shot; deserves to be dead. How’s that dreadful wife of his – still boffing away with the stable hands?” There will be a break in the slaughter and you are released from inside your cage long enough to stand in the freezing wind and pour mugs of steaming hot coffee which will then be passed in through barely open windows. The only contact with those in the front is the pair of expensively-gloved hands that reach out to take it. No-one has seen your face or uttered a word of thanks. You might be some moveable vending machine for all they would know. At length, the empty cups are passed back to you and once they are stowed away in the picnic basket awaiting your ministrations on your return home, you are permitted to clamber back in with the dogs and resume your back-breaking journey across the county. I had never realised that I was in some way “see through”. Having pushed and pulled my charge in through a pair of heavy medieval oak doors which threatened to slam in our faces and knock me off my feet and my charge out of his wheelchair, I was so happy to see a line-up of strong if somewhat chinless sportsmen who would obviously reach out a helping hand to hold a door or relieve me of my walking stick or pair of gumboots. How could they? I didn’t exist. I was some unseen being holding up their erstwhile but now sadly octogenarian sporting companion. Once seated at the long lunch table, I am allowed to perch at his elbow and be issued with a plastic plate, a piece of bread and two small sausages. A mug of soup and a chocolate biscuit and I had been fed and watered and presumably will find my own way to the bathroom. I know the staff loo is near the back door but unwilling to run the gauntlet of 20 pairs of gumboots, two dozen walking sticks and three wet hungry large dogs, I find my way upstairs and use the family facilities. I feel the icicles settle on my shoulders as the horrified glare of the hostess tells me that she had seen me descending the staircase. I have invaded the Holy of Holies. I have sat on the wooden throne where his lordship sits, and have gazed out over the wet muddy fields that made up his fiefdom, and rested my weary aching head on the cool marble of the basin and regarded my red-rimmed eyes in the mirror that hangs on the opposite wall. How was I supposed to look. I had enjoyed no less than three hours of broken sleep the night before, and for three nights prior to that. Nights interrupted with squeaks, snores and frequent demands from the speaker system next to my bed. Until I had learned that these noises could be read like a Morse Code, some requiring an answer and some that could be ignored, I was up and down the stairs every half hour, stunned from lack of sleep and dreading the moment when daylight appeared. This is the time that the resident dog begins its insane yapping, warding off the postman, the paper man, the dustman and anyone who dared to walk past the house. It is my job to rush down and pacify him, race back upstairs and check the bath water, roar back down and relieve him of the post and papers which he is threatening to devour and then return to a now tepid bath. Then it is time to face the day. Time to take in the papers, take out the dog, take through the tea and pick up the dirty clothes. Lay the fire, throw out the ashes, straighten the cushions and open the curtains. Make the beds, help with dressing, clear the breakfast away, issue the pills, clean the kitchen, clean the bathrooms, cook the lunch, clear the lunch, mend the clothes, shop for the groceries, run the bath, make the supper, watch the TV regardless of the rubbish on it, and all the time, smile, smile, smile. Smile but don’t speak unless spoken to. Listen and laugh obligingly at the endless stories of fortunes lost and won, of grand houses and grander people. Wear a crash cap to avoid the dropping names that fall like confetti from the sky. Be suitably impressed at all times and smile, smile, smile. People are coming for lunch. What fun. Lay the table, prepare the vegetables, heat the plates, cook the food, serve it up, clear the table, wash up, put away, serve coffee and smile, smile, smile. Did someone speak to me just then? “Oh, Let’s ask her. You must know about the new potato peelers that they have just invented”. “No Madam, I know about the state of the world in general, the falling gold price, the words of Alfred Lord Tennyson and who has recently been nominated for Best Actor in a Foreign Film, but new potato peeler. I’m sorry Madam but I can’t help you”. The light in their eyes that flickered for a fleeting moment fades, and I fade with it, back into obscurity. I slink back to my dishwasher and give it a gentle pat. At least it understands me. A new game is being played. They are moving both the salt and the goalposts. I was better off when I knew that I was beneath anyone’s notice. Please don’t be nice to me and suddenly become friendly and encouraging. It’s like patting a dog. It wants to jump up and lick you and be terribly grateful to you for paying attention to it. But deep down, it knows that the minute it jumps up, it will be smacked for putting dirty paws on unsullied clothing and for making both a noise and a mess. No it is better that you leave me where I belong in the kitchen or sliding quietly down the back passage to my hideaway. Let me be the shadow on the wall who mysteriously produces three course meals, obligingly answers the telephone, humbly welcomes visitors, ensures a supply of clean clothes, remembers medication, runs hot baths and uses soothing hands. You don’t have to care. I’m the one who cares. Remember me, I’m the Carer. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”